My doctor wanted to see me last Saturday even though her office was closed. She instructed me to meet her in the ER waiting room. This whole post would have dripped with drama if I had started it with, “I had to go to the ER last Saturday,” which is true and untrue. Anyway. When she arrived, she waved at us through the glass window. I didn’t recognize her at all. No blue scrubs or crisp lab coat. Her ponytail was looped through a baseball cap and she dressed in jeans and a shirt that exposed three inches of midriff.
Mike said, “She’s wearing that?”
“She has carte blanche over my breasts and she signs my pain pill prescriptions. She can wear whatever she damn well pleases.”
She strolled in and told us that we would have to wait a few minutes for the other couple to arrive.
There’s another woman going through this? What? I’m not some side-show freak? I should toss my Deadwood audition tape? Man, my One Boob Mo act was going to take me places.
“She had it worse than you.” she said. “She had to be put in the operating room.” She continued to tell me that my breast abscess was not uncommon and that she had seen three other women that week with the same problem.
If you had seen this woman, you would have thought she had just given birth. She hobbled in with the help of her husband. Her eyes were dark and puffy. Her husband walked at her pace, asking her if she was okay, if there was anything he could do.
Later, when the doctor set us up in our respective exam rooms, I said to Mike, “See that husband? Did you see how he held her hand and walked her?”
“Did you see my hands?” He replied. “They were holding our son’s carseat.”
When we left, my little family waddled out with the other couple. My doctor looked at me and said, “You can shower on Monday if you’d like. It’ll feel good. Unless, of course, you feel squeamish.”
“Yeah, I’ll feel squeamish. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever take a shower again.” The other husband turned back at me and smiled at my joke. But what could I say? I had an audience.
This makes me grateful that my doctor wasn’t my mother or else she would have also taken the opportunity to publicly remind me to prepare a paper “U” on the toilet seat before use, like she did at every freaking restaurant. That’s how I learned to have great bladder control. If I could hold it until we got home, I wouldn’t hear my mother say, “Are you going to bathroom? Are you going to put toilet paper on the seat? MONA! DON’T SIT ON THE TOILET, OKAY?”
And whenever I walked toward the restroom, red-faced and wishing I had been born into a different family, I would leave my ghost Mona back in my seat, saying exactly what I wanted her to: “WHAT WAS THAT, MOTHER? I DON’T THINK EVERYONE HEARD THAT! DON’T PLANT MY ASS ON A NAKED TOILET SEAT? GOT IT! WILL DO!”
Since I had to start with a new doctor for this breast debacle, my doctor gave me a “Breast questionaire,” which included the cancer history in my family (none to date) and a requsite inquiry into my smoking and drinking (also zip, except for the Steel Reserve in the fridge). Then came the question, “Any recreational drugs?” She paused and looked up from the clipboard as if I had to fill in the blank with, “Yeah, heroin…but that’s only on the weekend. But the shrooms have me by the ovaries, I tell ya. By the o-va-ries.”
I’m re-thinking my birth control options. Right now, my birth control method has been looking at my screaming son, or the gelantinous belly pushing over my pants and saying, “No baby-making tonight, dear.” One of my friends is getting an IUD, which is tempting, but geez, I’ve had enough female invasion.
I broke down and bought jeans at Target. Nathan was asleep in his car seat until I had my pants around my ankles, then he woke up and needed comfort ASAP. Do you know how hard it is to try on pants while keeping a stroller in motion? I didn’t major in this, sir. I purchased the fat jeans in haste because I was tired of watching my white pantless self moving my child back and forth. Unfortunately, I bought the riddle-me-this jeans. My dilemma: if I go without a belt, I risk exposing my muffin top or worse yet, my “coin slot.” If I do wear a belt, it bunches up the fabric around the crotch which makes my crotch look enormous. I have the Grand Canyon of crotches. So what do I do? Go for the mega-mound or the crack-is-whack look?
And if you’re wondering how I’m doing, I should tell you that at my last doctor’s appointment, she said I was healing and the area looked “marvelous,” which is a very funny thing to say to a woman with a breast that looks more like someone extinguished a cigar on it. But it’s getting better. It’ll be a couple of weeks before it’s healed completely, but at least I have my good boob, that’s all I can say.